Game of Thrones: A Field of Lies
by Dashiva
Summary: In the North, two middle-men Starks follow the self-styled Targaryn king-in-exile to a fate unknown. In King's Landing, two sisters of Tyrell face an uncertain path. And behind the curtain waits Julain Waters.
1. Part 1

**PART 1**

* * *

"Winter is coming," he said.

The words were a true warning, foreboding the approaching doom that all across Westeros knew in their bones would come for them. Jacob Stark saw them as validation for the concept of certainty. So much in this life was cloaked in the unknown, the road ahead so murky that none could properly see the path it would wind towards whatever end it led to.

Winter would come. That was certain. That was fact, as hard as the stones that made the Keep at Winterfell. It was a known factor, something he could plan for and anticipate. If there was one thing Jacob Stark detested, it was the notion of not being ready for what the road ahead would bring.

He'd tried explaining this philosophy to his young wife once, but she'd merely feigned attentiveness during his diatribe. Three years of marriage had given Jacob the uncanny ability to discern the difference between Mary Stark, nee Tyrell, paying attention and Mary Stark, nee Tyrell, merely falsifying her keen gaze.

"It certainly is," she replied to his earlier proclamation. "Any reason you're bringing it up now?"

Jacob looked at her, tearing his gaze away from the window in their house that gave an unobscured view of the Wall in the far distance. They dwelled only a few leagues away from where Lord Eddard Stark held court at Winterfell, in a small village named Boldfast. "Seems it's our hallmark, to state the fucking obvious at every turn."

Mary looked pensive. "What is it now? I know that agitated tone."

"It's all pointless!" Jacob protested. "Why in the Seven Hells are we bothering with this if winter's just going to sweep us away like the evening tide? What is the bloody point?"

Mary's chestnut hair looked almost black at this time of dusk. "Would you rather we just gave up this time? Let the cold take us?"

"I'd rather there was no such thing as fucking winter," Jacob grumbled. "Just give me summer into eternity."

He was prepared to continue down this pointless line of complaint when suddenly the door to his house burst open. His squire, a young lad named David, panted heavily. "My Lord, he's returned."

_Because that's the last thing I gods-damn well need. _Jacob turned on his heel and swept his cloak off the table. "Stay here," he commanded Mary, "I'll be back. This won't take long."

"Be kind to him!" Mary called as he left the house in a huff. "He doesn't know what he's saying!"

Unfortunately, he _did_ know what he was saying. That was entirely why Jacob found him a chore.

* * *

"I said I demand to see your Lord!" the intruder insisted.

Christophyr Stark was in no mood for idiots. His cold, iced eyes glared narrowly at the man before him. "He is not my Lord, he's my brother, and he does not want to see you."

"Of course he does!" the man protested. "I came all this way, the least he can do is say hello!"

"I'm fairly certain his 'hello' comes with a crossbow bolt."

The man laughed maniacally. "He wouldn't dare! He wouldn't dare murder _royalty_!"

If this man was royalty, Christophyr was one of the Seven. Probably the Crone, if his rough face and scarred skin were anything to go on. "I'm fairly certain he has before. Remember Imran Frey?"

The man scoffed, shaking his head emphatically. "You can't possibly believe I don't remember the idiot Imran Frey, the would-be court jester, do you? Or are you referring to the beheading and quartering your Lord gave him for slave trading?"

"Dishonour must be paid for," Christophyr said simply.

The man waved his hand dismissively, then brightened as he saw something behind Christophyr's shoulder. He turned to see Jacob Stark striding towards them, cloaked and wearing a prominent scowl. Christophyr's brother was a good, decent man, if a little on the complaining side sometimes, but when his ire was drawn he was nigh unstoppable. He'd be surprised if the Lord didn't put a bolt through the man's eye this time.

"Lord Stark," Christophyr said by way of formal introduction, which he did with the greatest reluctance, "may I present the self-styled King Brendon Targaryen, First of His Name, Lord of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of-"

"There is nothing 'self-styled' about me," Brendon interrupted. "I am the rightful King of Westeros, no matter what the usurper Robert Baratheon might say about my family. The Dragons will rise again! We will crush this feckless coward and send his smoking hide back to Storm's End in a-"

Now it was Jacob's turn to interrupt. "You are no King, and you are no Targaryen. You're just a soft-minded fruitcake who thinks he's both. I have no time for fruitcake today."

"Now see here, my Lord-"

"Brother," Jacob said, looking over at Christophyr, "why am I still listening to anything this fleabag has to say?"

As much as he'd have loved to see Brendon Targaryen lying bleeding in the snow of the North, he knew the crazed bastard had important news. "He says he brings dire tidings from King's Landing."

"King's Landing?" Jacob asked incredulously. "They actually let you in? I would've thought that to be like the squirrels inviting a six-foot piece of dog shit into their tree?"

Brendon's eyes flared. "How dare you insult your true and rightful-"

"Get to the point before I stick one in you."

The alleged Targaryen cleared his throat, clearly affronted, before continuing. "You are no doubt aware that your wife has two sisters, Elise and Lonie?"

"Why, no, I hadn't discovered that after three years of marriage and two of courtship. Clearly I was blind through most of the last half-decade." Jacob's tone was moving towards one that Christophyr distinctly remembered him having the day Imran Frey had been killed. "What of it?"

"As I'm sure you also know, they are currently in King's Landing as diplomatic envoys from Highgarden-"

"Tell me something I do not know in the next five seconds if you wish to continue-"

"They've been captured!" Brendon exclaimed. "The false King has imprisoned them under charges of witchcraft and treason! They languish in the Black Cells and await the King's Justice!"

He'd told Christophyr already, but it sounded like horseshit to him. The last he'd heard, his sisters-in-law were safe in the capitol – at least, as safe as one could be in a den of vipers. If he'd had his way Christophyr would've speared this fool for even suggesting such a lie were possible.

Astonishingly, though, Jacob's eyes widened. He seemed to be taking this seriously, or at least properly enough to entertain the notion. "How came you by this information?"

"I may be the King-in-exile, but I still have friends in the Royal Court," Brendon insisted. "You must act on this, or their lives are forfeit."

Christophyr looked to his Lord, his brother, the one who'd valued his counsel above all others since they'd been boys playing in the snow. "You can't possibly believe this filth's slander. I'm sure if we send a raven to King's Landing, to Lord Varys or Grand Maester Pycelle, we will see that all is well."

Trust was hard to come by in Westeros, especially with men like the Kingslayer running around breaking oaths and murdering monarchs, but Christophyr liked to think his brother trusted him. He had trusted Jacob for all of their years, learning the precepts under Maester Maychen and training together under the sword tutelage of Aurin of Braavos. There was no-one in the Seven Kingdoms or the Seven Hells he put his faith into more than Jacob.

The answer that came from his brother's lips shook that faith to its very foundations. "Then we will act. Stay in my hall, over yonder, and rest well. We leave for King's Landing in the morning."

As two of Jacob's guards led the false Targaryen off to the dining hall, while he thanked Lord Stark and praised the guards for their fine work with all the oil in his voice he could muster, Christophyr grabbed his brother by the arm. "What are you doing? You can't believe this liar."

"I do not believe for a moment that he is a Targaryen, nor that he is the rightful ruler of this land," Jacob responded, his voice diplomatic but with a hint of bladed edge. "I do believe he speaks truth in some quarters, though. Besides, I've been meaning to visit the capitol for some time now." He reached his arm out and grabbed his brother on the same arm that Christophyr held him. "You must trust me, brother. I've not led you astray before, and I'm not about to start now. The world may have gone to shit while we slept, but that doesn't mean I will forsake our bond."

Years of growth had given Christophyr that trust, but there was something in Jacob's words that still unsettled him. Yet, he attempted to give the benefit of the doubt. "Neither will I, my Lord. Neither will I."

* * *

While the rest of Westeros languished under the approach of winter, the hot winds of summer still held their last grasp throughout King's Landing. It was pleasant weather that reminded Elise Tyrell of her home in Highgarden, with light breeze lazily drifting through the groves in the evening as the fiddlers played their tunes to their comfortable, relaxed audience. It was the only thing about King's Landing that she appreciated, besides having her sister there.

They'd been in the capitol for the past year, as honoured guests of the Crown and envoys from the grand House Tyrell. While they hadn't yet fallen foul of anyone in the city – at least, in any obvious way that didn't factor into some backroom machination – it had been a long, ultimately boring stay. The King had turned out to be a dull, fat old boar, his queen seemed as icy as the sewers were rancid, and the Crown Prince Joffrey looked like the sort of child one would want to pummel later in life with his dowdy, high-browed face and constant juvenile sneer.

Smug pricks, the lot of them.

Not that she'd told them that, of course. The only one whom she consorted with on that front was her dear sister Lonie, similarly consigned to this fate. The girls had matching auburn hair and round cheeks, and had drawn the eyes of more than their fair share of men both within and without of the aristocracy. Most weren't as pretty as some of the ones in Highgarden, but they were still decent enough to look at.

It was almost time for their lesson. Lonie had already dressed down to unflattering browns and thin-leathered boots, and Elise herself was in a matching olive green outfit. The training swords, wooden instruments lightly filled with lead, lay on the bench to the side of the training room.

"Why are we doing this again?" Lonie asked impatiently.

It wasn't the first time her sister hadn't seen the point, literal or figurative. "Self-defence. You don't want to be like all those simpering ladies of the Court, do you? Those pampered princesses who can't defend themselves, who keep relying on those stuck up Kingsguard idiots to save them?"

"No, I want to be back home," Lonie huffed. "I always heard Cousin Margaery say King's Landing was beautiful and exciting, and so full of intrigue you could barely stay in one spot before someone tried to enlist you in a crown-stealing scheme. But it's so bloody boring!" She threw up her hands restlessly. "There's no-one to fight, nothing to do but look pretty and curtsy to all those useless Lannister idiots!"

Some days, Elise wondered if her sister had been intended by the Seven to be born a man but had relented at the last moment. Sometimes her fiery heart put even the strongest Tyrell knight to shame. "You're saying you want to fight someone? I could always have you shipped to Essos. Pretty sure there would be some Dothraki there you could have a go with. That is, if they don't have a go with you first."

Lonie glared at her. "Ha, ha. Admit it, you're bored too."

She was, but not enough to go seeking a fight. "A little. If you'd like I can send a raven back to Highgarden. I could have Loras come and sling you over his horse to take you home."

Lonie made a face, sticking her tongue out disgustedly. "I'd rather kiss Joffrey the slimebucket."

"That's _Prince_ Joffrey, girl," came the voice of their instructor. "The boy may be a pain in the backside, but he's still of the Crown. Best to remember that."

The Braavosi had a hearty, melodic voice with just the merest hint of sarcasm underlining his words. Elise could tell he thought Prince Joffrey was just as smug and punchable as they did. Lonie, seeming to pick up on it too, nonetheless bowed low and made a mocking apology. "I'm sincerely sorry. We weren't taught basic manners when growing up."

The instructor raised an eyebrow, speaking sardonically. "I would think it remiss for your parents to teach you basic manners for addressing buffoons." He gave a quick glance around the room to make sure no-one had heard him, then went on. "However, it is a skill we must use despite how we feel. So keep that manner in check." Despite his words, he gave Lonie a wink.

"Now," he went on, "my name is Syrio Forel. I was told you two require training in the art of the blade?"

Elise grinned. This would be far less boring than Court politics.


	2. Part 2

**PART 2**

* * *

Christophyr had insisted that Jacob bring some retainers, few though that Boldfast possessed, but Jacob wouldn't hear of it. He appreciated the idea, but was fairly certain he and his brother could handle an idiot like Brendon Targaryen.

The ride along the Kingsroad had been gradual for the past three weeks, taking in the scenery while keeping Brendon close enough ahead that he was in sword-slashing distance if things turned sour. Christophyr spoke little, choosing to remain stoic while Brendon extolled the virtues of how his rule would shape Westeros once the Iron Throne was his again. Jacob couldn't blame Christophyr; he knew he, Jacob, was supposed to be a Stark, and bound by basic rules of honour and etiquette as his liege lord Eddard was, but most of the words aching to burst from Jacob's mouth were as foul as King Robert's arse crack.

"And of course, we'll blast those Iron Islanders back into the sea they worship!" Brendon was saying fervently, his horse trotting slowly along the Kingsroad. "Send them back crying to their Drowned God! Oh, that'll be magnificent! Will you both ride with me, as allies of Hourse Targaryen? You'd be richly rewarded…"

He continued in that vein for a while, and Jacob had to resist the urge to continuously roll his eyes. Instead he shared a knowing glance with his brother, who gave a barely perceptible grin in return. Christophyr seemed to have backed down from his somewhat adversarial position towards them trusting Brendon, which was gratifying. Jacob couldn't do this without him.

They only had to put up with this imbecile until they reached King's Landing. Gods willing they made it that far.

* * *

Christophyr hadn't given anything up. He still regarded Brendon as a potential threat, and believed Jacob was remiss for trusting him. He'd go along with it until Brendon revealed his true colours – then his sword, Grimwight, would cut that babbling head of his in half.

In the fourth week they approached an old watchtower, having not stopped at any villages on the road so far. Jacob hadn't rushed, as he'd believed that if Mary's sisters were in fact captured then they were either dead already, or being used as leverage for some purpose. Either way he hadn't seen the need for haste; he'd told Mary they were rushing to her sisters' aid, lying through his teeth. For a Stark, sometimes Jacob could be frighteningly dishonourable.

"You sure you're not really a Lannister born a Stark by mistake?" he asked Jacob as they set up camp in the husk of the watchtower.

Jacob scoffed. "Where did that come from?"

"Never mind." Christophyr cast a dark look over at Brendon, who'd sorted himself out with bedroll and blanket and fallen asleep, not bothering to help the others. "Still can't believe he hasn't tried anything. You'd think we would wake each morning with slit throats."

"I stayed awake for the entire first week," Jacob told him, "just in case. Didn't make a stir. Clearly whatever's going on, he wants us in King's Landing alive."

Christophyr snorted. "Probably just wants us dead there. Maybe so someone can watch. Are we under any bounties at the moment?"

Jacob's laugh had more humour than Christophyr would've thought for a question like that. "People are always going to be baying for my blood, no matter what. Wouldn't be surprised if there are at least half a dozen in King's Landing who'd jump at the chance."

"You're probably right."

They didn't say much after that as Christophyr set up his own bedroll, but as he lay down to get to sleep – Jacob already snoring loudly inches from his own ears – he realised something odd. When Jacob had answered his jab about the bounties, he'd said they'd be "baying for my blood".

His. Not _our blood_, or even _Stark blood_. His in particular. Last he'd checked, Christophyr was fairly sure Jacob hadn't done anything noteworthy to stand out as a bounty on his own. If anyone was a target, it was Lord Eddard; any friend of the King risked a dagger in the gut.

What made Jacob think he had enemies out for him specifically? Or was it just a careless, self-absorbed comment?

He hoped the latter, but the question sat nastily in his gut like a bad meal.

* * *

He named himself as Julain Waters, though that was probably not the name he'd been born with. A bastard of King's Landing with no knowledge of anything beyond the last five years, all that mattered to him was the money. Right now, he was being offered an _awfully_ large amount of it.

He was a killer, liking his deaths slow and savoury. There wasn't anything really complicated to him; he liked to live, living required money, money came from murder. Easiest thing in the world.

The target was…unconventional. He suspected it was part of a larger scheme that his employer hadn't bothered to fill him in on, and he was happy to have it as devoid of complexity as possible. As long as he was given the sack promised in his contract, all would be well.

The employer had given him an exact time and place for the hit, and warned him that unless he was swift there would be Kingsguard upon him like flies on cow shit. If there was one thing Julain prided himself on it was his speed – where it counted, of course.

There was still time to wait, some small measure of coin in his purse and a number of reputable King's Landing houses to visit. Until then, Julain Waters was keen to live life as fully as possible.

* * *

"No, really, I swear to the Seven it's true."

The barkeep seemed unenthused. "O' course, an' I'm the queen's bedwarmer when I'm not servin' drinks."

"It's true! My cousin was Hand of the King!"

"List'n mate," the barkeep said in a derisive tone, "if I 'ad a gold dragon for ev'ry bag o' bones what came in claimin' they was related to nobility, I'd have enough ta buy out the Thirteen in Qarth and still 'ave some for a'least fifty o' the best whores in the capitol."

The man's eyes narrowed. "You will regret this, good barkeep. You will rue the day you ever made a mockery of the griffins."

The barkeep laughed. "If I understand yeh correctly, yehr House an' yehr griffins ain't 'sactly well-liked, eh? What was it again, Connaroy, Conblagger-"

"Connington," the man cut him off sharply. "I am Ser Dac Connington, cousin to Jon, former Hand of the King, gods be good and protect his soul."

The barkeep nodded with feigned understanding. "So why the bloody fuck are yeh here, then? Won' the King and all his bastards kill yeh soon as smell yeh?"

It was a question Dac had been asked many times since coming to King's Landing, and an answer was still not readily available. The default answer of his gut telling him he was needed away from Griffin's Roost probably wouldn't hold much water with this degenerate.

"I needed a change of scenery," he finally offered, "and this seemed as good a place as any."

"Pffffft, 'King's Landing' an' 'good' don' go in the same sentence often," the barkeep snorted.

"Oh, I'm well aware," Dac replied. "Right now, though, I've no other option." He stood from his stool and made for the door. "Good day."

"'Ere, hold on!" the barkeep shouted. "Yeh didn't order anythin'! Yeh jus' came in ta tell me all 'bout yehr feckless House!"

_Ah. That's why I came_.

In one swift movement Dac swept out a small blade from inside his leather jerkin, no larger than his forefinger. The bar was empty, thanks to being just after mid-day, so no patrons were there to see the barkeep fall backwards against the wall and slump to the ground wordlessly, a thin trickle of crimson making its way down his neck.

Dac's eyes were cold blue chips of ice. "Never insult my House, lackwit."

He left the bar, closing the door behind him and blending in seamlessly with the crowded streets of Flea Bottom. That idiot was the third person he'd killed since arriving here five moons ago.

_King's Landing is in dire need of cleansing_, he thought. _It's clear they have no honour here, no respect for those who deserve it._

He found a fourth drinking hole, stepping inside the dimly lit hovel and approaching the bar. It was risky to try for a second kill on the same day, but if the news about Eddard Stark's imminent arrival was true then he needed to accelerate his timetable.

"Good man," he began to the bloated, over-nourished man behind the bar, "one finger of your finest, please." As the man grunted an acknowledgement and set about getting him some sub-par alcohol, Dac continued, "What do you know about House Connington?"

The new barkeep blinked, confused. "Eh?"

"They're my kin," Dac explained, "and they were unjustly stripped of their lordly titles when Robert Baratheon took the throne. He made us knights instead of lords, a shadow of our former selves."

He still didn't get it. "Wot?"

Usually, the story regarding House Connington's subjugation following Robert's Rebellion was enough to garner one of two reactions – either indifference, or mocking. The last barkeep had made the mistake of the latter. It was a test to see who here in King's Landing had respect, even if it was muted in a neutral reply.

"They produced the finest Hand of the King in the history of Westeros," Dac tried one more time. "Jon Connington, my cousin."

The barkeep dumbly scratched his head and cocked a stupid eyebrow. "Don' fink I know wot yoo talkin' about." His voice was low and droopy, even more of a lackwit than the last one.

Dac sighed, reaching for another knife. No time for the story after all.

* * *

Evening was settling over Boldfast when the raven came. It sat on the windowsill of Jacob Stark's abode, cawing loudly at the lone figure inside it.

Mary took the small note from its leg, unfurled the tiny scroll and read quickly. She frowned. The words didn't make sense. They were legible, and made proper sentences, but the content…

"David!" she bellowed. The squire was there in an instant. "Fetch me the letter over there at my bedside. I want you to compare it to this one."

He did as he was bid, retrieving the larger scroll Mary had received six weeks ago and taking the newer one she offered him. "Look at them both," she instructed, "and tell me if the scrollwork matches."

She knew it did – her sister's handwriting had been familiar to her since they'd studied in the sept together at five years of age – but she wanted another confirmation. David looked at the two letters silently, his eyes tracing across them hurriedly.

When he was finished he raised his head to look at her. "They're identical, My Lady. The scrollwork does indeed match."

As she had feared. Her gut quickened as a plan came to her mind. "Wake Maester Maychen, and bring him here with fresh parchment, quill and ink. Something is dreadfully wrong."

By now her husband and his party would be either within the Capitol or very close to it – she prayed for the latter – which meant that her words might be too late. She had to try, though. No shortage of thoughts had crossed her mind that the Targaryen man wasn't to be trusted, and now this confirmed it.

When he'd arrived four weeks ago he'd said that her sisters were at the mercy of those in King's Landing, awaiting the King's justice in the Black Cells. Yet the letter she'd received from Elise, dated not two moons ago, told her that they were both enjoying sword training and had had no ill incidents since arriving there. If Brendon had been trying to deceive them properly, why had he not thought that her own sister might send a raven to her?

Something was indeed wrong, and if it transpired that he was leading her husband into a trap, then there would be no power known to Gods or men that could stop her from destroying him.


End file.
